


Present Perfect

by Tolpen



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Vending Machine Wrestling, no magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-03-23 12:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13787877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: The United Kingdom of Ankh, Morpork, and Bits was actually ruled by two queens – Queen Sybil I. and Drama Queen Havelock Vetinari. Except when you said that to his face, the Prime Minister had the actual power to kill you with his brain, or so the rumour had it. On the other hand, having a talk with Commander Vimes, to public more known as Prince Samuel, the Duke of Ankh, or with Professor Downey, depends whether he wanted it to be a public affair or not, respectively, is a much cheaper and far less migraine inducing solution.The plot is currently under construction and we expect a new shipment the next week, because you know how it is when you order something by mail.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prince of the United Kingdom of Ankh, Morpork and Small Bits Nobody Really Wanted But Could Not Be Considered Independent doesn't punch the Prime Minister in face, despite that fucker pulled him out of warm bed too early in the morning.

The car radio was on, but unlike any other proper radio it was playing soundtracks from the Lord of the Rings, and not any radio station. The owner of the radio, and subsequently of the whole car, was having a rather bad morning and had no wish to have it even worse because of the news. The owner of the car wasn't the same person as the driver, because people like the owner usually had their own driver who was someone completely different from them and traditionally not a member of their family, which put them greatly above older but drunk teens who were responsible enough to call their god fathers and mothers to drive them home from a pub. That was something the owner of the car approved of, the rare glimpses of responsibility in the young people, because he hated drunk people with a steering wheel in their hands. Because aside from being the Prince of the United Kingdom of Ankh, Morpork and Small Bits Nobody Really Wanted But Could Not Be Considered Independent, and owner of a car, a bloody policeman and you better be driving sober.

His Royal Highness, the Duke of Ankh sighed: “Jeeves?”

“Yes, mister Vimes?” the driver replied, because if there was something His Royal Highness hated more than intoxicated drivers, it was being reminded he was a part of the royal family.

“Had that bastard actually said why he wants to speak with me?”

“I am afraid, mister Vimes,” Jeeves was choosing the words as carefully as only a driver of a car with a marvellous engine not crossing the speed limit on a completely empty highway on a bad morning could, “that the Prime Minister was very vague in his reasoning as always.”

“And it, as always, couldn't wait a few hours because we have a scheduled appointment at ten o'clock, as always, and Sybil is amused by this, as always.” Vimes sighed again and looked out of the window as the city which never slept was slowly waking up.

Not even the gentle early autumn weather could improve his mood when he entered 1 South-east Broadway, nicknamed the Fool's House which had everything to do with it being the official residence of the Prime Minister. It was currently inhabited by a predatory flamingo and a dog of unspecified breed. Of those two it was the flamingo who ruled the nation. Add an article about the Prime Minister comparing emails to a shipment of shrimps, and there you have the Morporkian sense of humour in a nutshell and also the joke of the 21st century. Vimes understood his Prime Minister to an extent. If he had jokes about him being a pink bird served daily on his plate, he'd also pull people out of their beds in the most unreasonable hours just because he could.

The thin man was standing in his office, hands folded behind back and looking out of the window, dramatically. Another national joke: The United Kingdom of Ankh, Morpork, and Bits is actually ruled by two queens – Queen Sybil I. and Drama Queen Havelock Vetinari. It didn't really help that Sybil found it amusing. When it came to politics, Sybil found a lot of things amusing, but then as a ruling monarch without any actual power she couldn't do much else.

“Sir?”

“Ah, Commander Vimes.” Vetinari had acknowledged that Vimes didn't like to be reminded of him being royalty and also not being afraid to punch the Prime Minister in face, but he still liked to keep the situation formal

“I was in Sto Lat,” greeted him Vimes a good morning.

“I see we are skipping the formalities. Still, a cuppa?” It wasn't much of a question, since it was preceded by a very lovely looking young maid who clearly wanted to stay in her warm bed and not make tea in 4 o'clock in the morning, but also wanted to be paid, so she brought a tray with a teapot, two cups and a sugar bowl with spoons, despite neither Vimes nor Vetinari liked their tea sweetened. However, there was no milk which angered Vimes. He decided to keep politely silent and not stir the waters.

Vimes sat down and sipped his bitter tea. Vetinari did the exactly same, although he seemed more absent minded. _To seem_ was the very important verb here. They both waited for the other one to start. When the Prime Minister came to the conclusion the Commander wasn't going to give in and ask what was the reason to drag him out of bed and across the country this early, he put the tea aside and said: “Perhaps you have heard that a new ambassador from the Czech Republic is arriving this week.”

“Oh? What happened to Miss Ludmila? Nothing bad, I hope.” Vimes wasn't really fond of ambassadors and emissaries of any kind, mainly because every dingle one of them was a lawyer of some kind. But of all the bloody lawyer diplomats Miss Ludmila was to be tolerated because she in fact didn't like politics, didn't cause problems, and most important of all she was good with children and Young Sam _adored_ her.

“She was recalled back home, I am afraid. The new ambassador is arriving tomorrow.” Vetinari made a face of a mild disgust.

Vimes gritted teeth: “Listen, if this is supposed to be a lecture on talking to ambassadors, I can assure you Sybil is going to give me on this afternoon at the latests, so you can spare yourself the work.”

“Speaking of Her Majesty, how is she?”

“Doing well. She asked after you the other day.”

“Ah, how nice of her to remember her subjects,” said the man who held almost all powers of the country and the teapot in his hands. “But no, Your Royal Highness, this wasn't meant to be a lecture. If nothing else, I am fairly certain, the new ambassador is in dire need of coming in touch with... people who condemn political polish.”

The official language of the United Kingdom of Ankh, Morpork and Small Bits Nobody Really Wanted But Could Not Be Considered Independent was English, but Vimes often suspected that Vetinari wasn't speaking it, or any of it's dialect, really, but rather his own language that happened to sound like English at times. On the other hand, he had known the man for a good number of years, and thought he could translate. “So, do you want the City Watch to prevent him getting tomatoed1 right back across the Europe, or to turn a blind eye to it, because it is a national tradition?”

“I do not insist on either, Commander,” Vetinari sighed. “But I would be pleasantly surprised if it were your people who wouldn't start the very vegetable act.”

“Sir?”

“While I officially don't know who the new ambassador is, I happen to know the man has rather conservative, even reactionary views on the Syrian immigrants and the whole Islam religion, Ukrainian labourers, people of varying gender and sexual orientation... I do believe there is no need for me to continue.”

Vimes wasn't any kind of a prophet or an oracle, but his mental cinema showed him his high-ranking officers, and calculated the only natural outcome, which was a rapidly increasing demand of tomatoes. He frowned: “And they decide to send such a man into Ankh-Morpork?”

An unamused smile appeared on Vetinari's face. “As it seems. Your thought, Your Royal Highness, Commander?”

“My thoughts? Nobby Nobbs for President, sir.”

-rewind-

It had happened at the autumn. November, if Vetinari's mind served him right, because the leaves had already fallen. Workers so desperate to work that they'd take any work for the smallest amount of money. Basically had sold themselves to slavery. It had been the year the Queen married. (Sybil, thought Vetinari. For him at had been and was always going to be Sybil, God stick the titles.) To Vimes. Which had angered some rather backward thinking people. Nobby Nobbs for President!

There had been arsenic coated light bulbs, and the dead rabbi, and a political movement trying to exile the Queen (again) and kill Vetinari and make Nobby Nobbs the President just like in the good old times. It had resulted in Vimes burning down the whole Heraldic Society, purely by an accident, Mr. Worde, an accident, you can put it in your newspapers.

Later people had began wondering why anyone thought it would be a good idea to have Nobbs as their President, completely forgetting  _ who  _ came up with the idea in the first place. And so the slogan had sunk in the common people's minds as a synonym for bullshit and idiotic idea, and had made its way to the Great Morporkian Idiom Dictionary.

The Prince, Commander Samuel Vimes and the Prime Minister Havelock Vetinari weren't your common people, and rather than bullshit associated the slogan with puppeteer government and power being held in hands that shouldn't be even able to reach it.

-rewind-

Vetinari looked up at the great chandelier hanging in the office, a beautiful mix of electricity and imitation jewellery. It glittered more than the diamonds on the crown jewels when it was lit, like now, because it was early autumn and the mornings were still darker and darker. “Mmm. I am afraid, Commander, that you have happened to summarize something very complicated, long and political into something very short and sarcastic.”

Vimes gave him a brief smile: “That's because unlike most of the politicians I actually do my work, sir.”

That caused Vetinari to raise an eyebrow. If you took a special care of the conversation, Vetinari's eyebrows could give you a sea sickness.2

“You aren't a politician, Prime Minister.”

Vetinari smiled, slowly as if he had to remember how to, and called for a maid to bring His Royal Highness and himself another tea and milk.

1As it happens, UKAM also had its own dialect of English, called the Morporkian English, which gave birth to many new words or different words you usually don't happen to see across the English Channel or even in the far and exotic places over the vast wet Atlantic Ocean. For those who don't happen to speak Morporkian English, the verb _to tomato_ is simply verb form of the noun tomato and it refers to the good Morporkian tradition to reward negatively viewed public figures with fruit, eggs, and vegetables, often softened by partial fermentation, at high velocity.

2And Vetinari himself could arrange your deportation from the land of Ankh, Morpork and Bits, and the living.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prime Minister and the Commander slash Prince Consort pay a visit to the Minister of Interior. Tiffany Aching finds a plot bunny in Lancre.

The indisputably third1 most powerful man of the United Kingdom Of Ankh, Morpork, And Bits was usually to be found at the De Chacal University rather than his office on South-east Broadway, and today was no exception. At the moment he was having a fist fight with a coffee machine which was an artificial Scrooge and refused to give him his changer along with the coffee. Hence the need to punch it. Truth be told, everyone, at least everyone at the the De Chacal University, knew the machine needed to be punched right below the coin scratching pad if your change got stuck inside, but Professor Downey wasn't one to just leave a free opportunity to work out some accumulated frustration to slip by.

Finally satisfied when his fist slipped on a rough edge that cut his knuckles, he grabbed his change and paper coffee cup, and proceeded to spend his two hours of break between classes on the college campus to enjoy the pleasant autumn morning. He sat down on one of the many benches, took out his notes and began re-reading them. Such was the mood when he was found by Commander Vimes and Prime Minister Vetinari.

“Morning,” he said. They replied something about the morning being good and the weather being nice, surprising for this time of the year, wouldn't you agree, and then they sat down next to him. Downey had to smile, because he noticed Vetinari carefully manipulating the seating, so the Commander would be sitting on the far end where he couldn't reach out and punch Downey in the face. Clearly Vetinari was learning. Or perhaps, and that was more probably if you had asked the Professor, the man just wanted to have this thorough as fast and smooth as possible, preferably without any bleeding noses on the front page of the _Times_.

“What are you having?” Vimes tried to start a polite conversation and nodded towards the paper cup Downey was holding.

And because every good deed must be punished, Downey answered: “A lack of self-respect.” He took a sip, the coffee could be safely described as sweet and tangy. “So, what is it you come to me with? Has someone declared a- Hold on, this one might be important.” The last sentence was directed more towards his phone than anything else.

Downey frowned at the display, but the thing didn't cease to ring. Much to Vimes's dismay, he picked it up.

-rewind-

Preston had taken Tiffany to the great Opera House to see a piano recital yesterday. To Tiffany the music seemed more complicated than necessary and she didn't really like it as much as country or folk but she had to admit the pianist was good. Just because it isn't to your liking doesn't mean it isn't good. Tiffany also appreciated that Preston wanted to go with her, which was something to smile about, so she considered the whole thing worth the travel all the way from Chalk to Ankh-Morpork and back with three transits on each way, and having to sleep on the train to be back in work on time.

So today she was waiting on the last transfer point in Lancre, the sun was barely up and the air was cold and crispy. For breakfast she bought a morning bite in the kiosk next to train station, but she wasn't brave nor hungry enough to open it yet.2

The train wasn't to arrive in another half an hour, so eventually Tiffany settled for a brief walk along a small stream of water to the park and back. Because it was Tiffany and she had her Third Thoughts, she was looking everywhere and on everything.

Which was why she found one particular log in the water very interesting, because there weren't any grown trees or stumps nearby from which the log could had come and the water here was rather shallow for the log to had floated all the way from somewhere up the stream. And so it happened Tiffany has found the body.

Which was why she had to sit down on the muddy bank, took a deep breath and consider the morning bite twenty-two pennies wasted. She took out her phone and dialled 177.

-rewind-

Downey had been a minute deep into the phone call. Within the minute his expression changed from amusedly cheerful to annoyed sour, and bottomed up the cup of his lack of self-respect. He hadn't said anything, except from one “Speaking” at the very beginning.

After a minute, Vimes's old battered Nokia screeched, which was its way to tell its owner that someone is calling him. He mouthed an apology to Vetinari and picked it up.

“Commander, here is Sergeant Detritus.”

“Morning Sergeant. What's the matter?”

A bit of static and then: “There's been a murder, sir.”

Vimes sighed. He had had explained on quite a number of opportunities that he didn't need to know about every single crime happening in the kingdom, especially now when he was married to Sybil who subtly disapproved of him running away to chase criminals. Detritus, though, was a stubborn one. Or maybe a bit slower in processing, that was hard to tell.

“I know, sir,” the thick Ukrainian accent continued flowing, almost hypnotic, “what you always say, but this is _important,_ sir. But it's Miss Ludmila, sir.” Sergeant had to be nervous. Whenever he stuffed so many sirs into speech, he was nervous. “It's in Lancre, sir.”

“Jesus Christ,” Vimes managed. He felt his insides revolting against him. He _liked_ Ludmila. He looked to side at Vetinari, who was watching the clouds gathering on horizon, and standing a bit further from them was Downey, who seemed almost furious, but only almost. The minister was speaking fast and quietly into his phone in the manner of a man who would love to repeatedly punch the face of whoever is on the other side of the line.

“Who is there?” the Commander asked. He could panic later, he could be raging later, now he had to work.

“Angua and Sally, sir. And Cheery. There's a witness, but she hasn't seen much, as far as I understand. Hm... Sir? Do you think that ACID is going to get involved?”

Vimes glanced at Downey. The man has already put the phone back in his pocket and now he was kicking pebbles for something that surely wasn't their fault. “Most likely, Sergeant. Most likely.”

He put the phone down.

Downey flashed a bitter smile. “I'm having a field trip. You want a ride, Your Highness?”

-rewind-

Phone rang.

“Downey, it's not even six in the morning,” Mericet answered it from his bed. His head hurt. What a night. He was getting way too old for this. “What is it you want?”

“Yeah, hi, sorry to wake you up. An urgent matter just popped up. I'm going to be gone all day long.” The sound was quite flat, as if coming from distance. Maybe hands-free?

“Huh-uh. Hmm.” Mericet heard from the other side a lot of static of chipping birds and water running. _The university campus,_ he thought. Somewhere in the house the old radio was playing a popular song he didn't recognize, but it had too strong bass.

“You're in charge while I'm gone,” said Downey.

Mericet, still not yet properly woken up, sighed. “Downey.”

“Yea?”

“I'm the _bloody chancellor!_ ”

On the other side, Professor Downey broke into laughter. Mericet hanged the phone, abruptly cutting the sound shut.

-rewind-

Eight years ago this car had been new and fancy. Now it was still quite fancy, but also a lot used. The radio was playing Greatest Hits of Queen, because it was the only CD everyone present had disagreed on, thus making fair for everybody. Or, as Vetinari had put it upon picking it up, that was how democracy worked.

Downey was driving. Mainly because it was his car. But also because Vetinari's leg was still bad, even after all those years, and Vimes had been at police for years so driving a car without the blues on was like shaving with a Parkinson.

“You still could get yourself a chauffeur,” Vetinari said as there was another rain of curses and cusses on the head of the driver in front of them who thought the word blinker something unsanitary.

“Havelock, if there is going to be a person handling a deadly machine and navigating it among other deadly machines, it's going to be me.”

“ _Are you happy, are you satisfied?_

_How long can you stand the heart?”_

“Shut up, Freddie.”

 

1The most powerful man in the country was, as half of the people would tell you without a shade of doubt, the Prime Minister. The other half of the nation, however, would oppose and claim, the most powerful man was the one not afraid to punch the said Prime Minister in face. While, as the dear reader can see, the position of the most and the second most powerful man was up to speculation depending whether you favoured more Vetinari's intellect or Vimes's fist, the Minister of Interior, Professor Downey, was the third in power and there were no questions or speculations about _that._ Ever.

2Morning bite was the national fast food cuisine speciality. The name itself was a rather poor pun on “A-M-Bits,” and the food was a hard rough bread, often confused for a whetstone, sandwiched between poached eggs and bacon, wrapped in boiled beans in wow-wow sauce, all brought to perfection with a pinch of asparagus, a touch of turnip, and a handful of salt.

 


End file.
